Finders Keepers
by merduff
Summary: One of these days, Wilson's pathological need to rescue everybody he meets is going to get him killed. Written for Wilsonfest: Wilson helps a patient leave her abusive husband, and now the husband has come after him. Spoilers for S4
1. Chapter 1

House was on his balcony, enjoying his morning cup of coffee, when he heard raised voices from the office next door. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Wilson shout in anger — almost all of them directed at him — so he glanced over to see who Wilson had pissed off. Just then, a man leaned across the desk and grabbed Wilson by the tie.

"Where is she?" the man shouted, twisting the tie around his hand, and pulling Wilson to his feet.

House put down his mug. This was worth investigating. The tie was ugly, but not enough to provoke violence. And the feminine pronoun meant trouble. Women always meant trouble where Wilson was concerned.

Wilson pulled himself free before it became necessary to intervene, so House perched on the dividing wall between the two balconies and waited for something interesting to happen.

Most people at Princeton-Plainsboro believed that Wilson was the caretaker in their relationship and House was the leech that sucked Wilson dry of time, energy, and material goods. That was true to an extent. But being Wilson's friend still required a ridiculous amount of effort and vigilance. He'd met Wilson too late to discourage him from choosing a soul-destroying specialty, so instead he was forced to distract Wilson from the reality that three-quarters of his patients would be dead in five years. Unfortunately, Wilson was more than capable of finding his own distractions, ones that inevitably led to expensive weddings and even more expensive divorces.

He tried to remember if he'd seen any new applicants for alimony hanging around Wilson recently, but Wilson was a master at keeping his indiscretions discreet. That was one thing House missed about having a team. It would take the newbies months to develop the kind of connections he needed to keep track of Wilson's love life. He was about to call Chase to see if he'd heard any juicy gossip out of oncology when the man in question poked his head through the conference room door. House beckoned Chase out to the balcony.

"Who is Wilson sleeping with?" he asked without preamble.

"No one, as far as I've heard," Chase replied without missing a beat. "Though he took Cuddy to the symphony last week."

"Interesting, but not relevant." At least not at the moment. He'd have to have words with Wilson about that later, though. A shared love of boring music was no reason to risk emasculation. He gestured towards Wilson's office. "Somehow I don't think the asshole about to hit Wilson is looking for Cuddy." It was a slight exaggeration, but the man had clenched his fists and was leaning into Wilson's personal space.

"What the hell?" Chase exclaimed and hopped over the dividing wall. "Are you just going to sit there?" he demanded.

House assumed that was a rhetorical question. He stood up and followed, not wanting to miss something interesting just because Chase was blocking his view. It had been a while since he'd witnessed an all-out brawl in the hospital.

Chase, however, was going to ruin his fun. He slid open the balcony door and stepped into Wilson's office. "Is there a problem here?"

Wilson glanced at Chase, a wary expression on his face. "Everything's fine," he said, and smiled reassuringly. "It's just a misunderstanding."

But the other man shook his head. "There's no misunderstanding, you interfering son of a bitch." He lunged at Wilson, who easily stepped away. Frustrated, the man picked up the nearest knick-knack on Wilson's desk and hurled it against the wall. "Tell me where she is."

Wilson squared his shoulders, and House thought he would get his fight after all. But then Wilson leaned forward and planted his hands on his desktop. "You don't want that kind of trouble. Get a lawyer and get counselling, but stay the hell away from her."

House decided the opportunity for spectator sports had passed, so he stepped into the office behind Chase. "I think you'd better leave before we call security to haul your ass out of here," he suggested politely. He nudged Chase towards the man. "Why don't you escort this gentleman to the lobby, Dr. Chase."

Chase looked as though he were about to protest, but Wilson nodded, so he grabbed the man's arm and led him to the door, more roughly than House would have anticipated. Maybe sleeping with Cameron had toughened him up.

As soon as they were gone, House turned on Wilson. "What have you done now?"

"Nothing," Wilson muttered.

House wasn't going to let him get away with that. "So he was about to take your head off for no reason?"

"Not every patient thanks me for giving them bad news."

That was true. It wasn't unusual for one of Wilson's patients to become violent after being issued a death sentence — the ratio of thanking to hitting was about 4 to 1 — but House had heard enough to know this wasn't a patient. "Nice try. Mr. Aggressive isn't dying, so who is he? Jealous boyfriend? Angry brother? Angry father?"

Wilson glared at him. "None of your business."

That immediately made it House's business. One of these days Wilson would learn that even the dullest story was made interesting by evasion. He watched Wilson gather the pieces of the broken knick-knack — a bobble-head one of his younger patients had given him. "You know, there are lots of single women just dying to trap a rich doctor into matrimony. You don't have to steal someone else's girl." He smirked. "Though forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter."

"I'm not having an affair and I didn't steal someone else's girlfriend." Wilson fumbled with the pieces, trying to reassemble the toy. He sighed and dropped them in the garbage can.

"That's not what it sounded like to me," House pressed. "Or did he just randomly wander into your office to demand the whereabouts of a woman you've never met?"

Wilson glared at him. "The woman is my patient. And that's all you need to know."

"Again?" House shook his head. "I know you don't like long-term commitments, but sleeping with your patients is taking dead-end relationships a little too literally."

"I'm not sleeping with a patient," Wilson protested, but had the decency to look embarrassed. "That was a mistake. It's not going to happen again." He shifted uncomfortably when House just looked sceptically at him. "I mean it. I'm just helping her get out of a dangerous situation at home."

House put the pieces together with more success than Wilson had had with the broken toy. "So Jealous Boyfriend is actually Abusive Husband?" He shook his head when Wilson shrugged in assent. "Are you a moron?" Wilson wasn't stupid, but he did more than his share of stupid things, especially where women were concerned. "You're not a social worker or a cop. When are you going to learn to mind your own business?"

"It's my business to keep her alive," Wilson retorted. "And keeping her away from her husband will increase the odds of that happening." He shuffled several files on his desk, a signal that the conversation was over.

House rarely paid attention to Wilson's signals, at least the warning ones. "So they had an argument and he got a little carried away. Get them some marriage counselling. I'm sure you have at least a dozen names in your Rolodex."

Wilson's hands stilled and he stared at House. "Tell me you didn't just defend a man who beat his dying wife." His voice was quiet and the words clipped, which meant he'd bypassed annoyed and gone straight to furious. "Get out of my office."

Even House knew better than to try to argue with Wilson when he was this angry. He'd find a better time and place — preferably public — to try to knock some sense into his head. "Don't come crying to me when Mr. Abusive reports you for kidnapping his wife," he said as he left through the balcony door. Not that the Princeton police would ever look to him for a character reference.

Chase came back to the conference room a few minutes later. "I told security to keep an eye out for him, but you know how effective they are."

House had two bullet scars to prove that point. "One of these days, Wilson's pathological need to rescue everybody he meets is going to get him killed," he muttered. "I'll have the wannabes stake out his office in shifts and make sure there are no return visits. None of the guys look like they'd be any good in a fight, but I bet Cut-throat Bitch would love to Bobbitt a wife beater." Chase's mouth thinned and House wondered if Rowan had been more than just a neglectful father and husband. "What are you doing here anyway? Homesick?"

"Referral," Chase retorted, handing House a folder. "Post-op patient with complications unrelated to the surgery. It's not MRSA," he said, forestalling House's immediate rebuttal. "Or a community acquired infection. Thought it might be an interesting puzzle to weed out the next losing candidate."

House had planned to have them go over Anna Nicole Smith's autopsy reports, but he had to admit live patients were more interesting. "Counting on me to clean up your department's mess?" he asked, but flipped through the file, looking for clues.

"No, just counting on you to make it somebody else's mess." He sauntered out casually, but House saw him stop and look in the direction of Wilson's office, a worried expression on his face.

House made a note to drag Wilson back to his apartment for an evening of beer and pizza. If he had to, he'd fake increased leg pain or lingering after-effects from his impromptu encounter with electricity. It was much easier to baby-sit Wilson when Wilson thought he was the babysitter.

* * *

By noon, the patient was back in ICU; by early afternoon he was on a ventilator. They finally settled on Wegener's granulomatosis by early evening. Then it was wait for the corticosteroids and cyclophosphamide to work, or start back at square one. It was nearly 8 pm by the time House dropped by Wilson's office, only to find it locked and dark.

"What time did he leave?" he asked the oncology ward nurse. Wilson was meticulous about informing his staff about his whereabouts, even when he was playing hooky with House.

"About twenty minutes ago," she replied, glancing at her watch. "Do you need me to page him?"

House was tempted, but Wilson was still annoyed about the fake page that let House ransack his hotel room. "It's not an emergency," he admitted. "I'll just call him on his cell." But Wilson didn't answer, which could mean any number of things, especially if Wilson had checked the call display.

Wilson had undoubtedly raced off to visit his latest project, playing Stingo to yet another doomed and damaged woman. Depending on how far her cancer had advanced, Wilson would have set her up under an assumed name in a care facility or hospice, one not affiliated directly with the hospital. Wilson was a moron, but he wasn't stupid. It would be easier to keep tabs on him if he were a little more stupid. But then House wouldn't care enough to bother.

He'd done all he could at the hospital for the day, so House decided to camp out in Wilson's hotel room and ambush him when Wilson returned from his house call. When he arrived at the Hotel Pathetic, however, Wilson's car was in the lot. That suited House just fine — waiting wasn't one of his strong suits. And Wilson had probably had his room lock recoded after the last break-in.

A man rushed past him as he was walking towards the elevator, nearly knocking him over, and House turned to yell at him, only to realize it was Mr. Abusive. "Hey," he shouted. "What are you doing here?"

Not surprisingly, the man didn't pause to answer, just broke for the side entrance, away from the main lobby. House saw a bellman close by and shouted, "Stop, thief!"

The bellman obligingly stepped in front of him, then grunted in pain when the man pushed him aside, knocking him into the wall. But he'd given House enough time to get within cane range. House pushed off his left leg, swinging hard with his right hand, and sent the man sprawling on the ground. Sometimes he loved his cane.

"I asked you what you were doing here," House repeated when the man rolled over and scrambled to his feet.

The bellman had recovered and grabbed the man before he could escape again, pinning his arms behind his back.

"Careful," House warned. "This guy likes to hit dying women." He grinned when the bellman tightened his grip. His smile faded, though, when he saw blood on the man's shirt. "New question. What did you do to Wilson?" He patted the man down and found a switchblade in his jacket pocket.

"Call the police and an ambulance," he said to a hotel lackey who had run up to investigate. "Send them to Dr. Wilson's room."

He doubled back to the elevator, darting into the first available car. It seemed to take hours for the elevator to reach the third floor, and he was through the doors before they were fully open. Wilson's room was at the end of the hall, a corner room affording a negligible amount of privacy. The key card he'd lifted off Wilson months ago still worked, and House briefly wondered what that meant.

"Wilson!" he shouted, pushing the door open. "Wilson!"

The room was empty. There were signs of a struggle — an overturned chair, Wilson's briefcase kicked onto its side, the bedside lamp knocked to the floor — but no sign of Wilson. He heard the sound of running water in the bathroom. "Wilson?" he called out, hurrying across the room, his leg protesting the reckless pace.

His leg was forgotten when he pushed open the door and saw Wilson sprawled face-down on the floor, a pool of blood spreading like a halo around his dark hair.

"Jesus. Wilson." He dropped awkwardly to his knees and carefully parted Wilson's matted hair, until he found a bump and a gash. The gash was nearly clotted closed, and though head wounds bled a lot, he didn't think it accounted for the amount of blood he saw. He turned Wilson's face gently and recoiled when he saw blood sheeting the left side of his face. He grabbed a towel and carefully wiped the blood away, looking for the source. It was a deep cut, tracing the curve of Wilson's left eye socket. House couldn't tell if the eye itself had been damaged.

Wilson whimpered when House pressed the towel against his face, his eyelashes fluttering beneath House's fingers.

"It's okay, Wilson," House said. "You're okay."

Wilson wasn't okay, though. His pulse was fast and thready and his skin, the skin not slick with blood, was clammy. He was going into shock, or already there, and House wondered what the hell was taking the paramedics.

He checked Wilson for other injuries, noting a cracked rib and a dislocated shoulder. Wilson flinched at his touch and scrambled away, backing up against the bathtub and kicking out wildly. His right arm was stiff and useless at his side.

House just barely avoided a foot in the stomach. "Wilson. Calm down. Wilson, listen to me."

Wilson tensed and opened his right eye. "House?"

"Yeah, it's me." He shook his head when Wilson groaned in pain. "That was a bright move. Hold still and straighten out. I need to elevate your legs." He pulled the rest of the towels off the rack and piled them up, shifting Wilson until he was lying on his back with his feet on the towels. "Where does it hurt?"

Wilson sucked in a pained breath. "Head. Arm. Hurts to breathe." He jerked his head away from House's hand. "Killian. Is Killian gone?"

"He's gone. You're safe."

"Where?" Wilson struggled to sit up, panting from the effort. "Have to stop him."

House tried to hold him down without injuring him further. "Easy, Wilson. Security has him."

Wilson nodded and closed his eyes, but then tensed at the sound of footsteps. House glanced up and saw a man in a hotel uniform step through the door.

"Is there anything I can do?" the hotel minion asked, looking queasy at the sight of blood. He obviously wouldn't be any help at all.

"Go find out what's taking the ambulance." House looked down at Wilson, who was breathing in short, shallow gasps. "You're safe," he said. "He's not going to hurt you or his wife again."

He waited for Wilson's breathing to even out, and then braced himself as best he could on the floor. "I'm going to reduce your shoulder," he warned Wilson. "I need you to relax."

House felt along the shoulder. It was an anterior dislocation with minimal swelling and no sign of fracture; there was a good chance there'd be no complications. He put one hand on Wilson's upper chest and positioned Wilson's right arm tight against his body, elbow bent at 90 degrees. "I'm going to cut one of the applicants after the next case," he said conversationally. "What do you think? Should I give the lucky ones roses?"

When Wilson snuffled a little laugh, House rotated his forearm laterally, feeling the shoulder slip back into place. "Perfect technique," he said. "You'll be jerking off ambidextrously again in no time." House checked his pulse and resumed pressure on the cut. At long last, he heard the sound of a gurney rattling down the hallway. "In here," he shouted, moving aside to sit on the toilet when the paramedics crowded into the bathroom.

"Caucasian male, late thirties. Head and facial lacerations, shock, possible internal bleeding. Dislocated shoulder already reduced. Pulse 160, respiration shallow." He fell back on emergency protocol. It was easier than acknowledging that he was talking about Wilson.

He watched them double-check the vitals, slap a pressure bandage over Wilson's eye, and start an IV. "Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro," he ordered when they were ready to load Wilson on the gurney. "I'll call ahead and have a team waiting."

He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialled Cameron. He didn't trust any of the other trained monkeys in the ER. "There's an ambulance coming in," he said when she answered. "You're taking the lead."

"You know you can't actually tell me what to do any more," Cameron replied, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Normally, House would take a moment to clear up that misconception, but he didn't have time to remind Cameron of her place in the hospital pecking order. "It's Wilson."

As expected, that deflected her nicely. "What happened?"

"He was attacked." House ran down the same information he'd given the paramedics. "I'm worried about the eye. If there's a scar, the nurses might stage a walkout. Page 39. Taub," House said, dredging the name of his pet plastic surgeon from his store of useless information. He wanted someone good with a needle taking care of that wound. "Tell him if he does this right, he gets a free pass to the next round." And if he fucked it up, House would make his remaining days in fellowship boot camp a living hell.

"I'll look after him," Cameron promised. "He'll be all right."

House appreciated her optimism, even if he couldn't believe it. He stared at the blood on the floor, smeared and scuffed. This was what happened when he didn't keep an eye on Wilson. This was what happened when he didn't hold up his end of the friendship. He stood up, but his leg buckled and he sat down hard on the toilet seat. He took out his pills and shook one out, and another. Then he waited for the police to arrive.


	2. Keepers

House sat in the lobby of the emergency room, behind his favourite potted plant, thinking about what he'd learned. The man who attacked Wilson was named John Killian. According to the police, he had a string of arrests for drunk and disorderly and disturbing the peace, nice euphemisms for bar fights. He'd had a couple of charges of assault dismissed, and one conviction for battery.

As soon as the police were done with him, he'd called Cuddy to explain what happened and to get her to check the hospital's files. Christine Killian had been admitted three days ago with a broken collarbone and various bruises, the result, she'd said, of a fall. As one of her attending physicians, Wilson had been called in. The next day, she'd been transferred and her records locked. But Cuddy had the magic key. Christine Killian was safely tucked away at the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital in New Brunswick.

House was pondering the mystery of how someone as cynical as Wilson could also be so ridiculously quixotic, when he heard someone walk up.

"I thought I might find you here," Cameron said, standing in front of House. "Wilson's going to be all right. Grade 1 concussion. Two cracked ribs and lots of bruises, but no internal injuries. The x-rays of his shoulder look good." She hesitated and House knew there was something else, something that he wouldn't want to hear. Cameron had never been good with bad news. "There's a slight possibility of damage to his optic nerve," she said finally. "They won't know until he's fully awake if his vision has been compromised."

House struggled to his feet. "Is that your definition of all right?" he snapped.

Cameron didn't even flinch. "They're keeping him overnight for observation. Cuddy did her thing and got him a private room."

"Only the best when one of her employees is attacked by the relative of a patient."

"Why don't you get cleaned up and go see Wilson," Cameron suggested calmly. "He should be coming around soon and he'd probably like to see a friendly face. Or at least a familiar face," she modified.

"If he _can_ see, you mean," House snapped. It wasn't until Cameron pointed it out that he realized he was splattered with Wilson's blood. His hands, his shirt. The cloying smell of copper nearly made him retch. There was blood on Cameron's scrubs as well. He couldn't stand looking at her. "I'll be in my office if anything changes."

Cameron followed him to the bank of elevator. "If there is a problem with his eye, he shouldn't be alone."

House stabbed the up button impatiently. "I'm sure Cuddy's got his room staked out so she can get him to sign off on liability the second he wakes up. And god knows you love a bedside vigil." The elevator dinged its arrival. Saved by the bell.

"You'll come if he asks for you," Cameron said.

It was a statement, not a question, and House was pleased she was finally developing a spine, even if it was too late to do him any good. He didn't answer, though, just let the elevator doors close between them.

* * *

An hour later, Cameron walked into his office without knocking.

"Is he asking for me?" When Cameron shook her head, House turned away. "Then what are you doing here?"

"He woke up a few minutes ago. He has diminished vision in his left eye. The odds are it's just swelling, but until the swelling goes down..."

"What has that got to do with me?" House asked.

Cameron stared at him. "Nothing," she said finally. "Just thought you'd want to know."

House waited until she was nearly out the door. "Does Wilson know if his patient is safe?"

She paused. "I don't know. Has anyone even been in touch with her?"

House rolled his eyes. "Do I have to do everything?" he complained, though it was no-one's responsibility but his own. He had failed to keep Wilson safe. The least he could have done was confirm that his patient was safe.

He called Robert Wood Johnson and convinced the switchboard operator, who had no record of a patient named Christine Killian, to put him through to security. Security finally agreed to connect him to her room, after he explained in great detail who he was and what had happened. They wouldn't tell him what name she'd been admitted under. Not even Wilson knew that.

The phone rang five times before it was answered, and House imagined her starting at the unexpected sound, unsure whether or not to answer, and then finally overcome by curiosity.

"Hello?" Female, fragile, and frightened. Just Wilson's type.

"Mrs. Killian, I presume," House said.

There was a long pause and House checked the line to see if she'd hung up. "Who is this?" she asked finally.

House approved of the wariness in her voice. It was nice to know Wilson hadn't risked his life for a complete idiot. "Dr. Gregory House. I'm a colleague of Dr. Wilson."

"Is everything all right? Why isn't he calling himself?"

The note of hysteria in her voice was less impressive, and House regretted making the call. "Dr. Wilson had an emergency." It wasn't lying as long as he didn't have to elaborate on the nature of the emergency. "But he asked me to let you know that your husband won't be bothering you again. You're safe."

He grimaced when she started to cry. "Wilson will call you as soon as he's able. He'll explain everything then." He hung up and glared at Cameron, as if it were her fault he'd had to deal with emotions. "Go tell Wilson his damsel is distressed but fine."

"Why don't you tell him?" Cameron suggested.

"Because I need to burn the sound of weeping from my memory." He put in his earbuds and turned the volume up as high as he could stand. It nicely masked the sound of Cameron slamming the door.

* * *

House's office didn't have a couch, an oversight he'd never bothered to fix, because he had a perfectly good couch — and bed — at home. Wilson, however, was frequently unwelcome in his own home, or just between homes, so he had a very comfortable couch in his office. House broke in through the balcony and made himself at home.

He woke with a gasp from a dream about knives to the sound of someone pounding on Wilson's office door. It took a moment to remember where he was, the dream still so real that he thought the dampness on his cheek was blood. He wiped his face quickly, and then dry-swallowed a Vicodin before stumbling over to unlock the door.

Cuddy was standing on the other side, glaring at him. "Why aren't you answering your pages?" she snapped.

The easy answer was that he'd left his pager in his office, but he wasn't about to demean their relationship with something as tawdry as the truth. "Why aren't you stalking unsuspecting sperm donors?" he countered.

But Cuddy wasn't playing. She'd always had an unfortunate tendency to lose her sense of humour when one of her department heads was hospitalized. "You need to talk to Wilson."

"Why? Is he lonely? Are the nurses refusing to give him a sponge bath?"

"He wants to check himself out AMA."

House shrugged. "What do you want me to do about it?"

For a moment he thought Cuddy would stamp her foot in frustration. "I want you to do what you do best. I want you to go down there and browbeat him into staying until I clear him for release."

"Did he pass all the neuro checks?" House asked.

Cuddy nodded. "And his x-rays and CT scans are clear."

"Then there's no reason to keep him. If he wants to go home, let him go home." House didn't know why Cuddy was wasting his time. He wasn't Wilson's keeper. And if he was, he'd done a piss-poor job of it.

"He has a concussion and his home is a crime scene. Do you really think it's a good idea for him to go back there alone?"

House didn't think most of Wilson's decisions were rational, but that was no reason to trap him in a hospital room indefinitely, unless Cuddy was planning on admitting him to the psych ward. And while Wilson would clearly be safer there than on his own, it wasn't in his best interests to give Cuddy a precedent for involuntary commitments.

"He's not going home and he won't be alone," he told her. "I've cured my quota for the week. I'll take Wilson back to my place and handcuff him to the couch if I have to. I'll even take photos for you." The curing part wasn't entirely accurate, but the patient was responding to treatment so far. The candidates could keep an eye on things.

Besides, it was an excuse to get out of clinic duty even Cuddy wouldn't override. Wilson might not be pleased, but he'd forfeited his right to complain when he put himself in the middle of a domestic dispute that was — for once — not his own.

Cuddy, though, was smiling, and House realised she'd intended to make him baby-sit Wilson all along. "I'll start the paperwork," she said. "You can have the rest of the week off, as long as you keep in touch with those misguided fools who want to work for you. I'll even give you a pass on your clinic hours this week, as long as you actually take care of Wilson. No pranks."

That took all the fun out of rooming with Wilson. Without the practical jokes, House would have to listen to Wilson bitch about dirty dishes or laundry. Wilson wouldn't even be able to cook with a dislocated shoulder.

Cuddy accurately read the pout on his face. "I mean it. He needs to rest, not rush a fraternity."

"As if any self-respecting fraternity would take Wilson," House muttered. "Fine. But if I die of boredom, you'll have nobody to torture with clinic hours."

"I'll take that risk," Cuddy replied wryly. She paused. "Thank you for doing this," she said. "He shouldn't be alone." She shook her head, a long sweep of dark hair shadowing her face before she pushed it back. "What was he thinking?" She swallowed thickly and looked away, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" House demanded. "Because I've already had to deal with one hysterical woman and that's more than filled my quota."

"Two of my department heads — two of my friends — were hospitalized this week. I think I'm allowed to be upset," she replied, as she swiped at her eyes defiantly. "I know you're a self-destructive idiot, but Wilson... I don't know whether to hug him or hit him myself."

"Oh, god, don't hug him," House exclaimed. "I'm putting a restraining order on him. No women within 100 yards without strict supervision. Wilson is the Henry II of medicine. He could have conquered Europe, but he had women in his life."

"You're ridiculous," she said, but she was trying hard not to smile. "The two of you are like opposite sides of the same coin. You hurt yourself by pushing everybody away; he hurts himself by trying to save everybody. You deserve each other."

They both probably deserved better, but House didn't trust Wilson with anyone else. "I'm going to deserve a vacation after playing manservant to him all week," he grumbled. "How is he going to do the dishes with one hand?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes and turned to leave. "I'm sure you can manage to throw away the take-out containers all by yourself. I'll drop by later to make sure you haven't killed him with your peculiar brand of kindness."

"Bring porn," he shouted after her. "Or just wear that low-cut black silk blouse with a push-up bra. It's the same thing."

Wilson was sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning at a scrub shirt, when House walked into his room. He leaned against the door and watched as Wilson undid the sling and slipped the shirt over his right arm with a grunt of pain. Putting the sling back on proved more difficult, but he managed to adjust it properly on the third try.

"You're an idiot," House said.

Wilson blinked, or winked, as his left eye was covered with a patch. "Did it take you all night to come up with that line?"

House wasn't in the mood to banter. "Just a self-evident observation."

"Takes one to know one," Wilson replied, looking pointedly at the healing burn on House's hand.

Wilson was not going to make him feel guilty. He had no problem making Wilson feel guilty, however. "At least I had the decency to make sure you weren't the one to find me," he retorted. "You got blood all over my best t-shirt."

But Wilson didn't look guilty. In fact, House couldn't see any emotion at all, which worried him more than the visible wounds. Wilson had the most expressive face of anyone House knew. The expressions were sometimes misleading — particularly at the poker table — but they were always eloquent. Looking at Wilson now was like looking at his whiteboard after the symptoms had been erased, but without the satisfaction of getting the diagnosis right.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "But it's not like I planned this."

"Really?" House had come to a few conclusions after talking to the police. "You have a history of making insane sacrifices for other people. You had to know you were placing yourself in his sights once you removed _her_ from them." And there it was. Just a tiny tell: a quick look to the left, and silence. "You hypocritical bastard," he snapped. "What right do you have lecturing me about my choices when you're offering yourself up as a punching bag to a wife beater?"

"You don't make choices," Wilson retorted. "You act on whatever whim catches your fancy, regardless of the consequences."

House ignored that. He'd heard variations of that lecture enough times to be able to repeat it by rote. "She wasn't going to press charges, was she?" He didn't wait for an answer. "But you knew his record. You knew that another arrest would mean jail time. Even a couple of years would be enough. You wanted him to go after you." When Wilson didn't deny it, he had to suppress the urge to throw his cane at Wilson's head. "You stupid son of a bitch! He had a knife. He could have killed you."

Wilson looked away, but not before House saw the first sign of emotion in his eyes, a glimmer of despair that unnerved him more than anything else that had happened over the past 24 hours. "Wilson?" he asked cautiously.

"I don't know," Wilson said dully.

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know why he stopped." He touched the patch over his left eye and shuddered. "I remember the knife, and I remember the pain, but I don't remember what I said." He looked up at House, the despair overwhelming now. "I must have told him where she was. Why else would he have stopped?"

House needed to cut off that trip down guilt highway quickly. "Don't be so pathetic," he snapped. "I talked to RWJ. You set up so many security precautions that you practically have to have a retinal scan to get into her room. And you don't even know what room she's in or what name she's under, so you couldn't have told him enough to find her. Which proves you knew this might happen." His stomach hollowed when he thought through the implications of that. He studied Wilson critically, cataloguing just how much abuse he'd taken. "Are you sulking because you don't think you held out long enough? What would have satisfied your sense of honour? Actually losing your eye? Both eyes? Or do you think you should have died before you told?"

Wilson didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost inaudible. "The last time I gave in, you nearly died. I promised myself I would never let that happen again."

House closed his eyes and wondered when Wilson would stop atoning for things that other people did. "Don't put this back on me," he said. "This is one mess that's not my fault." But he knew absolution couldn't come without forgiveness, and that was one of a legion of things he had never been able to give Wilson.

* * *

House managed to keep Wilson away from his office for the rest of the week, but only by loading him into the car and driving to Atlantic City. The eight miles between his apartment and the hospital were too short to avoid temptation, even if he confiscated Wilson's keys and wallet. But Wilson was far too responsible a department head to take a two-hour cab ride on the hospital's tab.

Besides, House was neither cruel enough to force Wilson to recover on his couch, nor generous enough to sleep there himself. He _was_ generous enough to check into the hotel on his credit card — though he knew Wilson would feel obligated to split the bill on checkout.

Wilson regained full vision in his left eye on the second day and abandoned both the patch and the sling by the weekend. With his bruises and ribs carefully cloaked in loose clothing, the only outward sign of his physical ordeal was a nearly invisible line of stitches tracing beneath his eye. House had to admit that 39 was good with needlework.

The emotional recovery was harder to gauge. Wilson didn't speak the entire trip to Atlantic City, which was just fine with House, but when the silence lingered and Wilson turned in early to bed, House started to worry. But Wilson got up early the next morning and took a long walk down the Boardwalk. When he returned, he was back to his normal, if somewhat subdued, self. House was beginning to realize though, that even normal in Wilson was cause for concern.

When Wilson took another long walk the next morning, House made a phone call to the Princeton Borough police station and asked a few questions. He was waiting when Wilson walked into the room.

"You didn't tell."

Wilson didn't even pretend to act confused. "How do you know?"

"I called the police station and found a friendly cop. He checked Killian's statement. Bastard's plea bargaining. He claims he never meant to hurt you badly, just scare you. He left because he heard someone in the hallway and got spooked." He handed Wilson a coffee and watched him warm his hands against the heated porcelain. "No one would have blamed you if you _had_ told," he said. "It would have been the smart thing to do."

"I would have blamed me," Wilson replied softly. He managed a real smile and reached into his jacket pocket. "I got us tickets for George Carlin on Saturday," he said, and the subject was dropped.

House had a hard time letting Wilson out of his sight, however, once they were back in Princeton and at work. He sequestered himself in his office, where he could watch the corridor and wander out onto the balcony every hour or so for a breath of fresh air and a covert check of Wilson's office. Even when Cameron — who seemed to think Wilson required a break from House-wrangling — convinced him to take on her latest ER freak, he ran his team remotely, uneasy out of earshot of Wilson for long.

Wilson tolerated his hovering with amused affection. "I don't need a guard dog," he said, as he joined House on the balcony for a late-afternoon coffee break.

"I beg to differ," House retorted, watching Wilson shift his right arm gingerly.

Late one night, when they were both drunk on casino highballs, Wilson had told House everything he remembered about the beating. Afterwards, he let House catalogue his injuries, matching each mark to each blow: the kick that cracked his ribs; the punch that left an imprint of knuckles above his navel; the shove that split the skin on the back of his skull. Wilson hadn't talked about the knife to his eye, but House still dreamed about it every night.

"Go on," Wilson said, pushing House gently towards his office. "You've got fellowship applicants to torture and ghosts to exorcise. That's a full day." He sighed when House planted his cane and refused to move. "What happened wasn't your fault. You're not responsible for me."

But Wilson was his responsibility, one of the few he took seriously. He had never been very good at keeping Wilson safe or keeping him happy, but he'd keep trying. He still had a chance to get it right. "It's Shark Week on Discovery Channel," he said. "Want to come over after work?"

Wilson smiled. "I'll cook fish."


End file.
